


no grave can hold my body down

by blackkat



Series: Crossover and Fusion Drabbles [34]
Category: Batman (Comics), Bleach, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Humor, Warning: Gin, Wow Gin is SUCH an asshole, back from the dead, i forgot how much i loved him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Gin takes a shortcut through a graveyard on a chilly Gotham night. He doesn't expect to meet a broken Robin clawing his way free from his grave.





	no grave can hold my body down

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: shinigami(s) of your choice coming across just-dug-out-of-his-own-grave Jason Todd.

There’s a boy clawing his way free of the grave.

A little surprised, a little curious, Gin stops short, the toes of his boots just a few yards from the disturbed earth. It’s a wet, dark, grim day, the way it always seems to be in Gotham, and if Gin were anything like the rest of the people hurrying home out of the promised rain, he probably would miss the sight of a hand thrust up out of the earth, the desperate, determined claw of fingernails as the grave’s occupant hauls himself out.

Humans used to bury people alive, back when they couldn’t tell who was just unconscious and who had actually crossed over. Gin had thought that was centuries ago now, though, and he cocks his head, not quite able to help the flicker of amusement that rises sharply. For all their advancements—advancements Gin will wholeheartedly admit he’s come to enjoy immensely—it seems like humans are still a fallible bunch. 

By all rights, Gin should leave. He should walk away and let things play out, let some blind human stumble over the scene and take care of things. Gin is, technically, trying to keep a low profile, trying to stay hidden. Ichigo beat Aizen, but if Soul Society catches wind of Gin still wandering around the human world, they’ll rectify that fact quickly. Dealing with the dead is too much of a risk, even in a place as strange as Gotham; losing his comfortable human life isn't something Gin wants to risk.

But—

The curiosity is an itchy, urgent thing, too long denied. Gin never _used_ to deny himself any sort of poking at interesting things, and having to show restraint when he’s playing human is _boring_. What kind of human digs themselves out of their own grave? What kind of human gets buried alive? And what kind of person has reiatsu like this one, weird and warping and edged with something wild?

There’s no way to find out _without_ poking, or at least no fun way. That’s enough to decide Gin, and with a smirk that he hasn’t allowed himself in far too long, he leans down, seizes that grasping hand, and pulls the human up through the dirt and into the living world.

“Oh,” he says, amused, as not a grown human but a _child_ sprawls out on the graveyard’s manicured grass, coughing and shaking. Crouches down over the boy, like a gangly bird, and laughs a little as he struggles to turn over. He’s just about the same age as Ichigo, but broader, darker, and covered in injuries that will likely kill him before long. Gin eyes him carefully, head cocked, and grins.

“Well, you don’t look as lively as I was thinkin’ you would, after you made it all the way up here,” he says, and clicks his tongue in mock reproach. “Guess you might’ve been better served stayin’ in that grave, huh?”

The boy’s shaking stills, only the ragged, pained rasp of his breaths to show he really is alive. And then, slow, his head turns, cheek still pressed to the broken earth above his grave.

“You—” he starts, and coughs, hacking desperately.

With a snicker, Gin reaches out, patting him hard on the back. He makes some attempt to avoid the bruises there, but not a lot; there are so many that there isn't really a point. “Me?” he asks cheerfully. 

The boy wheezes, chokes, and manages to spit out a mouthful of dirt and a sharp, seething, “_Bastard_.”

Delighted, Gin laughs, leaning over him a little more. “Well, o’ course,” he agrees. “’m not sure it counts when I don’t know either a’ my parents, though.” The boy just glares, and, still smirking, Gin taps his chin to tilt it up, studying his face. Dark, hateful eyes, eyes he’d recognize in a mirror, and it puts his hackles up in the same moment it intrigues him. He knows what _he_ did to get eyes like that, but hate of that kind is hard to come by. It’s usually a little less calculating, too.

“Where’s the Joker?” the kid wheezes, shoving himself up on one elbow. He manages to stay there for about half a second before his muscles give way again, sending him crashing back to the ground, and he makes a strangled, snarled sound through gritted teeth.

Stubborn, Gin thinks. Tough. Just hums, though, tapping his chin like he’s trying to think. “Joker? I can tell a few if you want. What did the fish say when ‘e swam into a wall? Dam!”

There is no round of applause in appreciation of Gin's sparkling wit, just a grimace under a fringe of dark hair, and Gin huffs, reaching out to poke the kid in the cheek. “Yer about as much fun as Tōsen,” he complains, and flops down beside the boy, pressing his fingertips against the muscles of his back. “But if yer worried about the _other_ Joker, he’s in Arkham.” Pausing, Gin frowns, squinting faintly. “At least, ‘e was when I got offa work,” he adds after a moment. It’s always hard to be sure with the Joker.

There's a long, long moment of silence, something tense, taut. The boy’s breath rasps in, in, in, and then—

“He’s still _alive_?”

The kid sounds betrayed. Furious. Wounded, almost, and Gin watches him with interest, studying the shift of emotions across his battered face. Despair, then _rage_.

Gin smiles, smiles. Digs his fingers into the kid’s spine, and lets his reiatsu flicker and rise, out of the tight knot he’s kept it in for so long. Deep down in his soul, Shinsō stirs, still wounded, still weary, but alert enough to open one eye and breathe out, her heartbeat in time with Gin's own.

_Foolish_, she whispers, but it’s entirely amused, and Gin flaps an imaginary hand at her in offense. It’s been a long time since he was in the Academy, after all, and it’s not like healing kidō comes naturally to him, even if he is a genius.

“If you were hopin’ the Joker was dead, ya should probably get in line,” Gin points out cheerfully. “I think all a’ Gotham’s ahead a’ you.”

“He’s the one who _killed_ me,” the boy snarls, all wounded wildcat. That flare of fury is enough to push him up, onto his elbows and then up onto his feet in one painful staggering lurch, and Gin rises with him, bouncing up on the balls of his feet.

“I'm thinkin’ my point still stands,” Gin says, watching him stagger with a smirk. Taking a skipping step, he catches up easily, falling into step with the boy, and asks, “You sure ya know which way to go?”

The short, sharp sound of disgusted rage that tears itself from the boy’s throat is a familiar thing, makes Gin snicker. Byakuya would have done that every time he looked at Gin if it wasn’t so far below his dignity. Sidestepping a headstone, he spins around, all the better to watch the boy trip on an edge of marble and almost hit the ground again.

“Watch yer step,” he points out, grinning, and the boy lifts his head, eyes burning—

The punch, when it comes, is a complete surprise.

“All a’ that, for less than a mile?” Gin asks, and for the second time that evening he crouches down over the boy’s body, angling a pilfered umbrella to block out the rain. The kid’s still breathing, ragged, pained, but he’s drifting in and out of consciousness, and there’s more blood than the rain can wash away staining his body. He doesn’t answer, and Gin hums, mildly disappointed. Pokes at the white streak in the boy’s hair, almost the color of his own, and laughs.

“If I leave ya out here, I wonder how much further ya can make it,” he muses, lifting one limp hand to press a finger over the boy’s pulse. It’s there, steady, even if nothing else about him is.

Well. Nothing but his reiatsu. It’s still that wild, angry thing, full of teeth, not entirely like anything Gin has felt before. It’s _interesting_, and it will be a shame if the kid dies before Gin can poke some answers out of him.

“Ah, guess we look enough alike for my landlady t’ believe we’re sharin’ genes,” he tells the boy. Jason, by his grave marker. Jason Todd, and the name has a ring to it that Gin likes. He calls up his reiatsu again, and this time there’s no fist to the face to interrupt the healing as he presses his fingers to Jason’s side. Internal bleeding isn't an easy thing to fix, but Gin was the best in his class at every subject, graduated in barely any time with enough accolades to immediately be considered for a lieutenant’s seat. He remembers this well enough, even if it’s been a while.

He wonders, idly, whether Jason is anything like Ichigo. Wonders, amusedly, how he got eyes so very much like Gin's. there's no Rangiku weeping at his grave, no flowers left, no signs of care. Just a cold grave, disturbed earth, and a boy back from the dead, still carrying the wounds from the Joker that killed him the first time around.

It’s a mystery, and it’s interesting, and it’s been a long time since someone actually turned around and punched Gin in the face. Sure, people have _wanted_ to, but to actually do it—that’s pretty fun, isn't it?

Snickering, Gin tests his healing, and decides that Jason’s well enough for him to move. Still unconscious, but that’s a side effect of the kidō more than his wounds. Pleased, Gin gathers Jason up, rising to his feet, and whistles cheerfully as he starts off into the darkness, totting a body in funeral best right along with him.

It’s Gotham, so no one gives them so much as a second look, and that’s just the way Gin likes it.


End file.
